


A Love Lost

by garbagebreath



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, Hanahaki Disease, It’s sad and unbeta-ed, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Pining, Richie and Eddie are in love though, This is a non-cowardly take on book canon, Unhappy Ending, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 10:53:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20505773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garbagebreath/pseuds/garbagebreath
Summary: It wasn’t beautiful.It was rare, and so it was coveted. It was tragic, and so it was romanticized. It was rose petals between the cherry red lips of a starlet on the silver screen, and so it was beautiful.





	A Love Lost

1.  
  
It _wasn’t_ beautiful.  
  
It was rare, and so it was _coveted._ It was tragic, and so it was _romanticized._ It was rose petals between the cherry red lips of a starlet on the silver screen, and so it was _beautiful. __  
_  
But it wasn’t. There wasn’t glamor in the itching— the _burning_ ache that set fire to the airways. There was nothing idyllic in the buckle of kneecaps, the fall to the ground that left a smattering of purple bruises. Beguiling, isn’t the dry heaving that left red tinged drool dribbling down hacking lips and _staining_ them that way. Flower petals lying in pools of spittle and blood, there wasn’t beauty in that.   
  
The doctor who broke the news to eleven year old Eddie Kaspbrak saw beauty in it anyways. “Have you ever heard of this condition, Eddie?” _And hadn’t he always had conditions atop conditions?_ The man’s eyes were alight with fascination, he didn’t wait for Eddie to answer. “I don’t believe you would have. It’s unheard of around these parts, why, I wouldn’t have believed it even existed if I hadn’t treated a Ludlow man some ten years ago for it,”  
  
“Treating him is a bad way of putting it, I s’pose. Not much you can do for a man who refuses surgery. Poor gentleman, held out hope that the woman he had married years upon years ago would fall back in love with him, until the very end. It’s quite beautiful, really.”  
  
That cough, that dreadful raw cough that ripped flowers from his lungs... was that beautiful? Bill wouldn’t think so, and so he didn’t think so. “I guess it is.” His vocal cords were thick from the strain of puking, it was hard to imagine that he hadn’t permanently damaged them.  
  
He was in his bed when it began, the faint discomfort that quickly morphed into an all consuming pain. The coughs that began as a few and far between nuisance became an obligation to gag until the _hurt_ was gone— or until he coughed up a lung, whichever came first. What a sight he must have been when Sonia Kaspbrak found him. The blood drenched sunflowers swirled in his toilet bowl _(the small victory of making it to the bathroom was overpowered by his disorientation, his confusion at how he ended up in the bathroom in the first place)_ were hideous, only second to the garbled sobbing coming from his raw throat that sounded like the uninhibited screaming of a child.  
  
Sonia had shrieked, horrified and she _couldn’t_ have found it anymore beautiful than Eddie did. He must have looked like death, with his eyes rolling around in his head and his lips stained with blood.   
  
“You’re young.” The doctor said, pensive. _Too young,_ went unspoken. Whether it was too young to die or too young to be in love, Eddie wasn’t quite sure. He had done a lot of things that summer he was too young for, the ever present ache beneath the cast on his arm was reminder of that. “This may seem scary,” It was, but he had a lot of experience in dealing with things that frightened him. “But you’re young. You still have all the time in the world.”  
  
The flower removal process wasn’t very quick— nor was it entirely painless, but it was efficient. All that would remain of the disease after the surgery was a long white scar that dragged across his chest, from one side to the other. Unbeknownst to Eddie, the scar would disappear shortly after leaving Derry— as would the slices put on his palms by Stanley Uris later that summer, and any reminder of Bill Denbrough and his gang of misfits. That didn’t stop the surgery from feeling permanent to a terrifying degree in the moment.  
  
His two options were to choke on his premature love until he inevitably died or remove the garden growing in his chest, and remove Bill Denbrough along with it. They weren’t options, because it wasn’t a choice. He couldn’t die, not when he was sure his death would come at the hands of Pennywise— not Bill Denbrough.  
  
It was terrifying regardless, a guarantee that he wasn’t dying (at least, not in the _very_ near future) didn’t aid in the fear that came from the removal of a love he didn’t even understand, not really.  
  
Love scared him— losing love, one that was never his and would never be his, was scarier.  
  
“Do you know what sunflowers stand for?” The nurse who took his temperature asked, and her awed tone of voice had sent chills up and down his spine. He looked up at her smiling face, framed by her pinned up blonde hair, and shook his head no. “Adoration, devotion.” She answered eagerly, her smile had become encouraging. _And oh,_ this was supposed to comfort him. “There’s a young lady out there who doesn’t know what she’s missing.”  
  
His stomach lurched with shame, and he swallowed thickly around a wave of nausea that threatened to send him hurling. And he didn’t think he would be able to handle the piteous looks from the hospital staff as he dry heaved all over the front of his hospital gown. Similarly, he didn’t think he could stand the sight of one more yellow petal, if it came down to it.  
  
2.

  
“How could you do this to me?” Was the first thing Sonia Kaspbrak said to him after his surgery. His mind was fuzzy with anesthetic and the scar that wrapped around his chest ached something fierce, but he _heard_ her.   
  
“Wasn’t on purpose.” He slurred, disoriented to the point of not knowing whether or not he actually spoke aloud.   
  
“I knew this would happen.” Her voice was thick with tears, and he hoped he would fall asleep again before she began sobbing. He leaned his head back into the pillow and closed his eyes, one of his hands trailed upwards to stroke the mottled scar that was numb to the touch. _It’s gone._ “How many times are you going to let them... _break you_ before you come back to me?”  
  
“I’m not glass, Ma.” He was certain he was speaking aloud now. “And I never left you.”  
  
Bill Denbrough wasn’t to blame for his lungful of flowers anymore than he was responsible for Eddie’s broken arm that Henry Bowers snapped like a twig. Even without the heavy weight of petals on his throat, he didn’t think he could ever be angry with him. It wasn’t until he saw Big Bill again, that the fear set in. A fear he had _experience_ with— illness.   
  
Easy as it was to fool himself into forgetting about the _(stinging, itching)_ scar underneath his lungs, horror that hadn’t existed before that god awful disease gripped him every time he thought of how much easier it was to develop feelings for a boy _(and his best friend, at that.)_ He was eleven for God’s sakes. Eleven year olds don’t fall in love but he did it without any idea as to how. It scared him. Scared him so much more than sewer grates or lepers with dimes tucked into their socks ever would.  
  
It could happen again. And again and again. Because boys aren’t _meant_ to love boys, and maybe that’s what the disease was made for. For cursing people like Eddie— to bring a death wish upon a _sick_ person.   
  
A pharmaceutical bag was on his mattress when he reentered his room for the first time since the sunflowers sprouting in his chest began crawling through his airways. Inside was his aspirator, shiny blue and brand new. It even _looked_ fake. Fake like Mr. Keene’s pitying smile was when he slid the bag across the counter towards Eddie, his prying blue eyes were gray underneath the corner store’s lights. _“Back again so soon?”_ He sounded condescending, even when he was attempting sympathetic. _“Feeling sick?” _  
  
There were different forms of sickness. Eddie realized then, in the dead silence of his bedroom as he rolled his inhaler around in his palm. There was petty sickness that came in the form of the flu, the kind that had elementary school teachers begging parents to keep their children _at home_ if they were coughing up phlegm. There was sickness that promised death, death that was either quick and painless or dragged out to the point of relief when it’s over. There was sickness that came in the form of Sonia Kaspbrak’s overbearing delusion.  
  
There was Eddie. There was sickness that came in the form of sin. And Eddie had always been very, very ill.

3.

The grass behind the Standpipe hadn’t ever been cut, and when Eddie Kaspbrak sprawled out in it, the blades brushed against the tip of his nose with every gust of late spring wind. It was weeks before summer would begin, and years after the lucky seven held hands and bonded themselves to the town they were raised in. He brushed his fingertips against the white scars on the pads of his palms, and then reached beneath his shirt to run his fingers against the matching white scar that wrapped around his chest.

“Was it me?” Richie Tozier asked, he was leaning his cheek against the knuckles on his hand to look at Eddie next to him. His elbow was hidden in the grass, but Eddie could imagine that it was digging into the dirt. “Tell me it was me.”

“What are you talking about, Rich…?” He trailed off when Richie poked his hand that was still tucked beneath his shirt tracing his scar. Jerkily, Eddie yanked his hand from beneath his shirt and shoved away the searching dirt covered fingers that Richie still had prodding at him.

“It wasn’t you.” He snapped, grumpy and defensive. But his heart seized in his chest, and he fumbled around for the aspirator in his pocket. He wrapped his hand around it, but didn’t make a move to pull it out. The sun framed Richie’s tangled brown curls as he smiled down at Eddie, and the golden halo around that smile made it look more innocent than it would likely ever be. When he thought hard about the scar on his chest, he couldn’t really remember _ who _ it was that put it there in the first place. He silently prayed that it wasn’t Richie. “How did you know?”

Richie lifted his own shirt then, and there underneath the fabric of his dirty t-shirt was a scar that looked just like the one on Eddie’s chest. Newer, he guessed, _ but not much. _ He sat up, and looked between the horn rimmed glasses that hid a pair of baby blues and the scar identical to his own with his mouth agape. _ “Who?”_

With a frown, Richie poked Eddie again. This time, hard enough to send the smaller of the two sprawling back out against the grass. “‘S rude to ask a lady about her body.” He bit his lip to hold back his grin. “Tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.”

The name, old and long forgotten appeared clear as day in Eddie’s mind and before he could think better of it he blurted out a soft— “Bill Denbrough.”

And Richie did look surprised, his eyebrows climbed up his sweaty forehead and Eddie could only hope that it was the name of their mutual friend that surprised him and not the name of a _ boy. _ Richie wouldn’t care, _ not Richie. _“Me too.” He must have been staring at Richie like he sprouted a second head, because he looked up at Eddie with a smile that had gone decidedly sad. “Is that a surprise, Eds?”

And of course it was, because _ Richie _ wasn’t frail and sick. Not like Eddie. He hadn’t thought so, at least.

“Because I have to tell you, I wasn’t so surprised about _ you.” _

Eddie’s face went hot, and he shoved at Richie’s shoulder noncommittally. The easy cadence in Richie’s voice did it’s job though, and Eddie relaxed again. “I’m just surprised a dingbat like you ever thought he had a chance with Bill Denbrough.”

Richie threw his head back into the grass and laughed. He hadn’t noticed them before, the dandelions that framed Richie’s halo of curls but a few had tangled themselves into his hair. In that moment, he was certain he would never see another flower coated in blood again.

4.

There were yellow dandelion petals streaked with splatters of red smeared across the bathroom tiles. It didn’t take Eddie much guessing to come to a rightful conclusion on what happened. Myra Kaspbrak _ (and dear _ God, _ she had only been _ Kaspbrak _ for seven hours now) _was shaking like a leaf with her body bent nearly in half. Her knees were pressed against her heaving chest, and tears streamed down her face to mingle with the blood still dripping down her chin.

“Eddie..” She croaked, miserable and frightened. He wished, he selfishly wished that this had happened at any other time. Any time that didn’t cut their honeymoon short before it could even begin. There was a sadistic rush, seeing the woman who resembled his mother so closely on her knees and _ in pain _ because of him before he pushed that thought away with horror seizing him. He rushed forward to dab at her forehead with a towel that had fallen to the ground in all of her struggle to reach the toilet.

She was sobbing now. Uninhibited sobs of agony, and _ she knew. _ She knew. His hands shook and they shook and they shook. “Tell me it’s not true, Eddie.” She garbled, and her lips were still stained red and _ Christ almighty _ how could anyone find this romantic?

His eyes slipped shut. “Marty…”

And that must have been answer enough. Because another wave of flower petals and puke coated the bathroom floor. He would have to clean this himself, he couldn’t call the front desk and have them send a maid up and find… _ this. _ A newlywed suite with a floor covered in the evidence of a love that wasn’t returned. He couldn’t let _ anyone _ see this.

“You promised…” Mouthfuls of blood cut her sentence short but she didn’t need to finish it. He heard her well enough.

5.

The love for Eddie was gone with the surgery but the wedding rings never came off. Not until Richie Tozier walked into the Jade of the Orient, and Eddie Kaspbrak was barely thinking at all when he slid his wedding ring off and slipped it into the pocket of his trousers.

He didn’t put it back on.

6.

_ Story of my life, losing a love that was never mine. _

He was crying. Damn Richie for crying. Damn him for making Eddie wish that he could pull away from the warm embrace of death. And death _ was _ warm, cozy even. Nothing like the cold gripping nightmare that kept him up his entire life. But his entire life, it hadn’t been very long in the scheme of things— had it? _ And wasn’t that strange? _ That when his deck was being dealt he was given thirty eight years and he wasted them all away. It wasn’t all that bad, after all, Richie was cupping his face with his bloody palm and Richie had never really held him like _ this _ before.

He was saying something, Eddie realized. No, he was saying _ a lot. “Eds… Not you not you not you…” _ He was whispering like a mantra through his sobs, and Eddie had never heard a sound so horrid in his life. He hated it suddenly, that he was dying. He hated it that he spent his life around love that wasn’t returned, and the one time _ he knew— _ knew for certain that he could have _ had _ this, and it was over before it started.

_ I love you. _

He thought, and he hoped he said it out loud but he must not have. Richie was still crying, after all, and wasn’t being in love a joyous thing? He supposed not always, it hadn’t been with Myra. Hadn’t been with Bill before her. _ But it was with Richie. _And there was Richie, holding him like he was trying to squeeze the life back into him and he almost laughed. Blood gurgled out of his parted lips instead, and he didn’t have to look to know that there wasn’t a single petal in the dribble trickling down his cheek.

_ If I’m sick… oh if I’m as sick as Ma always said I was… I’m so glad I got to be sick with you. _

“Richie.” He croaked, and when Richie looked down at him with red smeared across his cheeks from where he had held himself against Eddie he looked _ beautiful. _He was glad then, glad that this would be the last thing he saw before he died.

“What?” Richie was desperate, desperate like he didn’t know that Eddie was in love with him. How could he not?

_You stupid, ridiculous man._ _I’m so in love with you._

“Don’t call me Eds.” He smiled, and raised his remaining hand to touch Richie’s cheek. He wiped away tears, and it smeared more blood onto his cheekbones. Richie’s bright eyes fluttered shut, but he seemed to think better of it before opening his eyes again. Like he knew that he didn’t want to miss this, and Eddie supposed he probably didn’t. _ You know I love you, don’t you? You’ve known it longer than I have, I’d guess. You know how oblivious I can be, Richie my love. Didn’t even know for certain until I spent the entire drive back to Derry thinking about you, hearing those ridiculous voices and I just knew— I was in love with him. Don’t miss me too much, if you charmed the pants off of me… you can get anyone to fall for you. _

In an ideal world, he would have been able to say it. “You know I...I…”

He closed his eyes.


End file.
